The death of I

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Last time not

Day three back home. I’ve been good. I’ve been resisting drunken intentions, and staying home. I’ve agreed to meet with Honzik. No, I told him I wanted to meet. I don’t like things ending with an SMS I don’t remember writing and deleting.

I’m naively hoping he’s not as uncaring. That maybe he’ll not grin blankly when I cry. That maybe he won’t leave when I ask him to stay. That maybe he’d not stay when I ask him to leave. That he would pick up the goddamn phone when I need him to. That he would call when I disappear. That he would wear a condom when he fucks other girls.

I’ve erased his number for the fifth time in six months. I’m setting a record.

He says I talk too much. He says I’m too demanding.

He says these things in my most vulnerable states. When I’m naked. When I’m on a comedown. When I’m my most open.

He’s the worst person I’ve ever met.

It’s the sixth month I’ve told him I want him gone.

It’s the fifth time I’ve come back.

It’s the fourth time I’ve told no one.

It’s the first time I wrote it down.

I want this to be the last time I mention his name.

Anti anti-age

But sir, I want to,

have cheeks sag, joints tighten and memory lag,

grow stiffer, bitter and

air it out

as I will.

I’d like to age, and have them age with me,

to grow inside of me

through and through

down Aire

against their will, we will.

Mluvíš? Mluvím.

I interviewed him back then, when I lived with my parents and had nothing more but my mind to my own.  It was a garage band that sounded much like all the other garage bands, but it was rock’n’roll, and I was 23.

I can’t find the video to reassess its shortcoming and naivites. I can retrieve the time he quoted his druggie artist of an ex. She thought I was a cunt. Me, a vegan. Me, a 23-year-old. Me, a valedictorian-to-be. I finished my fries and left, and whimpered  a little. I never wanted to hear from the bastard again.

He said he knew French, but we never spoke it. He said he used to live in Paris. He wished me good nights. We planned to rob a gas station, you know, when we both felt up to it, when we’d be sober.

Still alive? Still well? Jsem už čekal pred benzinkou a ty nikde.

I didn’t show up most of the time. And when I did, he was not to be trusted. He calls, over and over. He says it’s not the way it all looks. I don’t pick up.

He says he likes me. He says his parents live in New York.

He tells me he feels low. Sometimes he feels really low, and I get it. I drink gin and he drinks wine, though neither of us should.

I turn 25.

I have a boyfriend and we meet with an excuse of exchanging an item that never makes the exchange.  My boyfriend’s out of the country, for a while, who knows for how long, and I need to feel low with a fellow.

He likes my dress, though I don’t want him telling me that. I say I live a few streets away, but I don’t want to be telling him that.

He wants to see me. He wants to see me all the time, but he can’t be trusted.  Does he speak French?

Why has he chosen me to share his despair, his loneliness with?

I turn 26.

I have a new boyfriend. I can’t pick up. He goes through eye surgery and needs comfort.

And we do meet, but accidentally, more or less, but it’s all long gone and, in person, we are know-it-all strangers.

He deletes my number after that. I try calling him, some time at 3 a.m. but he can’t tell. He’s over me, like I pretended to be over him.

I turn 27. He turns 33. Savoir faire. We don’t really chat anymore. He’s up early. Probably working on his interviews–the media will boast about post-mortem–, maybe on his book-to-be. He’s online, but I can’t tell exactly.

And he goes away, like he does in late mornings, except that this morning he doesn’t return.

On Wednesday Gmail signs him out forever.